The Man Who Holds The Key
by LittlePippin76
Summary: Casefic. Sherlock has returned and he attempts to find the item that Moran and his cronies were holding for Moriarty, while John's welfare presses on his mind. Can he keep John at arm's length while he works? What new dangers are there for the pair?
1. Chapter 1

**A new case fic from me. In my canon this follows The Empty House, but is unrelated to any of my other stories.**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Chapter One

Sherlock turned the screw on the microscope, and the small flecks of pollen on the slide sprang into sharp focus. He could identify most of what he saw as daisy without needing to check with the reference material on the PC on the kitchen table behind him. His eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly. Daisy pollen could be transferred onto shoes in any of London's green spaces that the shoe-wearer happened to pass through. There was something else there too, and after moving the slide millimetre by millimetre, he was able to pick out daffodil too. There was the smallest twitch of a smile. Otherwise, he didn't move at all.

He heard Mrs Hudson's flat door open, and the sound of her footfalls on the stairs. He was vaguely aware that it was mid-morning and suspected she was coming to enquire about lunch. He tuned his senses to John, whom he could still hear, snoring rhythmically on the sofa.

His mind fixed on the slide in front of him again. There was something else there too. Something red. Red and spiky. He didn't know it instantly and he smiled with the joy of the game.

Mrs Hudson walked along the corridor and paused in the living room doorway, clearly looking at John.

"Don't wake him up," Sherlock murmured.

Mrs Hudson came around the corner, and Sherlock envisioned her looking at him with an exasperated frown on her face. He didn't look up.

"Is he all right?" Mrs Hudson whispered.

"Yes, he just had a heavy night," Sherlock replied. He wondered if she'd make tea while she was there.

"I bought you more milk," she told him.

"Thank you."

She bustled past him to the fridge, and he re-focussed the microscope to take in something smaller, almost hidden among the pollen. He heard the sound of the kettle going on and smiled.

"I've made a chicken pie," she said. "Will you be eating today?"

"Yes please."

"No case then?"

"No."

"Pity."

Sherlock frowned. A number of responses ran through his head.

"Something will come up," he said.

"Hopefully soon," Mrs Hudson responded.

Sherlock looked up now and frowned at the wall. He turned around, but Mrs Hudson was bustling about in the kitchen cupboards. She removed several jars, throwing away any that were past their use-by date and neatly replacing the rest. He waited until she looked at him.

"Was the rent late?" he asked.

"Of course not, silly boy!" She hesitated and looked in to where John was still sleeping. "Sherlock, do you think John's OK?"

"He's fine. I told you, he just had a heavy night, that's all."

"Yes, I heard him come in."

"I'm sorry you were disturbed."

"Oh that's all right. You know it is." There was another hesitation, and Mrs Hudson lowered her voice. "Do you think he's had rather a lot of heavy nights of late?"

"No."

"It's just he's usually so careful, what with his sister and all of that," Mrs Hudson persisted. "He doesn't usually go too far, and it's never too often."

"He's fine." Sherlock listened to more low snoring. "I've done some research and analysing the figures for how regularly men his age go out drinking, and what sort of quantities they consume on average. If we take into account his military past, which affects the results slightly, John is still within standard limits. He's fine."

"You did some research?" Mrs Hudson asked, with a small smile.

"Yes, there's no reason for concern."

"Why didn't you just say 'John, are you OK at the moment?'"

Sherlock stared at her.

"He'd have lied," he shrugged. "This gave me more accurate results."

She shook her head.

"Well I hope you get a nice case soon anyway. That always cheers him up a bit."

"Mm."

He watched her leave and then got up went to look at John. John was fine. He turned back to the kitchen, stopped, turned, and looked at John again.

There were the usual bags under his eyes, slightly larger than usual. The eyes were closed, but Sherlock suspected they'd be reddened. John had managed to shower when he'd got up this morning, for which Sherlock was grateful, but it had washed away any helpful marks. He hadn't shaved, and the last time he had, he'd used the electric razor and done a relatively poor job. Sherlock frowned. He turned his attention to John's hands. The right hand was crushed underneath John's torso, but the left one was showing. There was a small red mark on the third knuckle. Not so clear and obvious to be a deliberate act, but evidence of an uncoordinated knock, perhaps when John had staggered and grabbed at a wall to steady himself but hadn't coordinated the action properly.

John stirred and rolled over. His eyes flickered open and he startled.

"Christ!"

"What?"

"Sorry, I just didn't expect you to be looming over me when I woke up."

"I'm not looming! I'm… standing."

John rubbed his face.

"OK. What's up?"

"Nothing. There's nothing up."

"Oh." John heaved himself upright. "Sorry. Didn't mean to fall asleep."

"It's fine."

"You should just carry on as normal when I do that," John said. He sniffed and made a lazy attempt to flatten his hair. "Or kick me awake and move me on so you can watch the telly or something."

"I did carry on as normal. I didn't want to watch the telly."

"Well, play the violin or something."

"I didn't want to do that either."

John rubbed his face again and stretched his limbs out. He looked at Sherlock, who looked back.

Sherlock glanced at the yellow smiley face on the wall above the sofa.

"I was thinking of going out tonight," he said.

"A case?" John's head bobbed up eagerly.

"No, not a case."

John sagged again.

"Rachmaninov's piano concerto in D minor is playing in Wigmore Street," Sherlock said. "I was thinking of going along. Did you want to come with me?"

"I can think of few things I'd enjoy less."

"It should be a good performance," Sherlock said. "I know the soloist."

John grinned. "Still no. Don' t worry about me, I'm sure I can make plans to entertain myself. Do you fancy a cup of tea?" He pulled himself up, groaning as he did so.

"Mm. Mrs Hudson boiled the kettle but she didn't stay to finish the job. You really should come tonight. The pianist is an old friend of mine." He watched John walk into the kitchen. "She's very good."

John's head lifted as he put the kettle back on.

"She?"

"Yes. Andrea Thackery. We met when we were teenagers and we had the same piano tutor for a while."

"Did you date her?"

"No. We crossed paths as she was leaving her lesson and I was starting mine. Sometimes I arrived early to listen to her play, sometimes she'd stay late to hear me."

"I didn't know you played piano."

"I prefer the violin, but I can play both. I'm not as good on the piano."

John found cups and added teabags, and then he took the Tupperware box of medicines from the top of the cupboard and helped himself to a couple of paracetamol. He filled a glass with water and swallowed the pills.

"Mrs Hudson's made us a chicken pie if you're up to food," Sherlock said.

"Of course I'm up to food! I have a slight hangover, that's all."

"It didn't sound that slight last night," Sherlock said quietly.

"Didn't mean to wake you up." He turned around. "Is Wigmore Street the ones with those hard wooden pews to sit on?"

Sherlock's phone beeped with a text alert and he quickly grabbed it.

'_Holiday Inn off Regent Street. Able concierge. Need to understand connection with Moran. M."_

He deleted the text and looked up to find John watching him, expectantly.

"Anything interesting?" John asked, nodding at the phone.

"No, nothing." Sherlock dropped the phone into his pocket and smiled at John. "St Martin's in the Fields is the one with the wooden pews. Wigmore Street has nice comfortable theatre chairs where you can sleep soundly to your heart's content. Don't worry though; I know it's not your sort of thing. I'm happy to go alone."

"No, I might come actually. I'm happy to come and watch this old girlfriend of yours."

"She's not an old girlfriend."

John smiled. "We could go out for a drink afterwards if you want."

"It'll probably finish quite late."

"How late is late?"

"About ten."

"That's the perfect time to go out for a drink you old fuddy-duddy." He turned to finish making the tea and he put Sherlock's on the kitchen table. He frowned.

"Why are my shoes on the table?" he asked.

"No reason." Sherlock picked them up and dropped them on the landing just outside the kitchen door. He turned back and smiled brightly at John who was frowning at the microscope.

"I think I walked through Regent's Park on the way home," he said, looking at Sherlock. "Pub in Holborn, another pub in Soho, then possibly back to Holborn again, but it's a bit fuzzy, then back through the park." He frowned. "I think I remember listening to a lion roaring. Good geographic marker that, the lion enclosure. And you could just ask where I went, or better still, come with me."

Sherlock shrugged. "I was just passing the time."

"Fine. Well consider time passed." John yawned extravagantly and leaned against the kitchen worktop.

"I'll go and book two tickets for tonight then," Sherlock said.

"Fine, marvellous. I'll go and sit down quietly somewhere, I think."

John took his tea and staggered off through the kitchen and up the stairs, leaning hard against the bannister.

Sherlock watched him go, and he took out his phone to text Mycroft.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

John settled down into the springy seat next to Sherlock.

"I feel like we should have brought popcorn," he said.

Sherlock smiled.

"No, we don't need popcorn."

Sherlock glanced around the auditorium. It wasn't particularly full, despite the fact that the performance was about to start.

"What's she like then, this old girlfriend of yours?" John asked.

"She's not an old girlfriend. I don't know much about her beyond her being an excellent pianist; I'm surprised she isn't more popular. She was somewhat self-centred though. I don't imagine that she's easy to work with."

"No, well, takes one to know one and all that," John muttered.

Sherlock frowned.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, nothing." John smiled brightly and rummaged in his pocket. "Gum?"

Sherlock frowned at the little packet being waved at him.

"No thank you," he said sternly. John took a piece of gum nonetheless.

Sherlock's phone quivered silently against his thigh, and he sighed as he took it from his pocket.

"You're probably expected to turn that off," John said.

"Mm." Sherlock read the text, turning his phone slightly so that John couldn't see the screen.

'_M on my back re memory stick. Any news? Lestrade.'_

Sherlock sighed again and deleted the text.

"Trouble?" John asked, his face burning with questions.

The lights dimmed, and Sherlock shook his head and sat back to listen.

The orchestra walked on stage to a smattering of applause. It died down but restarted with greater vigour when a tall, red-headed woman walked onto the stage. Sherlock felt John sit up straighter beside him, and he rolled his eyes.

The orchestra tuned up, and silence fell. Sherlock closed his eyes and listened as Andrea picked out a simple melody and played calmly along with the orchestra. He waited expectantly, and then the piano suddenly leapt and chased the music out, and the whole world burst into a dazzling display of sound. He smiled and felt the tension drain away from his shoulders and neck.

To his right, John Watson stopped chewing.

oOo

John found he quite enjoyed the performance after all. There were points at which he felt it was dragging slightly, but he was content to watch Andrea's fine, tapered wrists as she worked her way over the piano keys, her fingers fluttering and flying.

She was really quite beautiful. The most startling aspect about her was clearly her hair, which was a bright, deep red. John suspected the colour was touched up with something from a bottle, but he forgave her for that because of the intensity of the effect. She had a high forehead, full lips, a slender waist and pert breasts. He was content to watch her play for a few hours.

By the time it ended, Andrea had raised him, and most of the rest of the meagre audience, into frenzy, and he warmly and vigorously joined the applause. He glanced at Sherlock, who had remained quiet and still during the performance, only moving to grab John's wrist to prevent him applauding between the movements.

Sherlock was sitting up now and smiling while joining in the applause.

Andrea took another bow and left the stage.

John stood and stretched.

"OK then," he said, leaning on the row of seats in front of them. "Where next?"

"Home next, I would have thought," Sherlock replied.

John sighed. Sherlock stood up and they shuffled to the end of the row.

"Oh let's go and have a drink somewhere," John persisted. "We don't have to be out long. Come on, we're together outside the house for the first time in…, well for the first time since you faked your death. Let's go and sit in a pub and have a drink."

"I've got a couple of important things to do," Sherlock said impatiently.

"What things?"

Sherlock stood still and looked at him.

"Nothing," he said. He shook his head.

John just barely resisted the urge to stamp his foot. Sherlock turned away and slowly walked towards the exit.

"We could go to Diogenes," Sherlock suggested over his shoulder. "You can come in as a guest on my membership."

"You can't talk in the Diogenes," John muttered.

"What did you want to talk about?"

John shrugged. "I don't know. Spaceships, monkeys, the X-Factor. You know; the usual stuff that people talk about when they're having a drink with their friends."

Sherlock glanced at him.

"I can hold my own on monkeys, I have rudimentary knowledge of spaceships both real and fictional, but you're on your on with the X-Factor.

John grinned. "Fine. We don't have to stay out late if you're going to be all strange about it, but let's do one drink in a quietish pub."

They wandered into the foyer where a group of people were milling around, smiling with the orchestra conductor while Andrea stood slightly aloof, glancing around and occasionally biting her fingers.

Her gaze fell upon John and Sherlock, and she smiled and started over to them.

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? Of course it's you; it must be!"

"Andrea," Sherlock said smiling, and he leaned to kiss her on both cheeks. "It was a wonderful performance. I enjoyed every second of it!"

"I'm glad. It's always nice to have someone with discernment in the audience rather than just the plebs."

"This is my friend, Doctor John Watson."

She turned her bright blue eyes towards him and he shuddered slightly.

"You're the man with the blog, aren't you," she asked. "You might like to pay a little attention to your spelling and grammar."

"Right, good," John replied. "It's very nice to meet you."

"Yes, of course, you too." She turned back to Sherlock. "I'm glad I ran into you, Sherlock. Is your awful brother well?"

"Yes he is. Still awful and still well."

"Good."

John watched Andrea gaze at Sherlock.

"We were thinking about going for a drink," he blurted out. "Would you like to join us?"

"We're going to talk about monkeys," Sherlock said.

"Sounds marvellous," Andrea said. "I'm bored of these people now. I'll go and get changed and meet you at the pub on the corner of Duke Street. Get me a vodka and coke with ice and lemon."

She turned and marched quickly across the foyer and through a door marked 'private'. The conductor paused in his anecdote to glare after her. He shook his head and turned to his audience with a smile, clearly making apologies for her.

John turned to Sherlock who was also frowning after Andrea.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'll duck out early or something. I won't get in your way."

Sherlock looked at him.

"Get in my way for what?"

"Nothing. Never mind. Come on, let's go and find this pub."

oOo

Sherlock sat down on an elderly, wooden chair at an elderly, wooden pub table. They'd walked through a crowd of smokers on the street outside and his nerves had started fraying from the smell. He glanced at the surface of the table and calculated who had vacated it recently, what they had had to drink, and where they had gone to next.

John was at the bar, ostensibly to get them drinks, but he was already deep in jovial conversation with a pot-bellied man who was wearing a 2007 Liverpool football club top. Sherlock glanced around to find the two agents that were following them.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and read the three texts that had arrived while they had been in the music hall. As he'd predicted there were two from Mycroft and a further one from Lestrade. He looked at John who was now laughing, and he watched as he gave the Liverpool supporter a friendly pat to the arm.

He dialled Mycroft.

"Did you go to the hotel?" Mycroft barked as soon as they were connected.

"Of course I went to the hotel," Sherlock said. "It was a non-starter. Able wasn't there, and apparently he skipped his shift yesterday too. He's in danger of being fired. He wouldn't risk losing his position if the hotel was important. It's a dead end."

"I'm not so sure."

"Well I am." Sherlock glanced across at John, who was finally being served.

"Where are you?" Mycroft asked. "It sounds noisy."

"I'm in a pub with John."

"Come to my office then. We clearly need further discussions."

Sherlock huffed. "Find Lestrade then and send him here. We're at the Five Keys pub on Duke Street."

"Sherlock, John is a grown man. He doesn't need a babysitter, and you've already located my men."

Sherlock scowled.

"Fine then, I'll see you when we're ready to leave. We might be a while; Andrea Thakery is in town again. We just watched her play and she's meeting us for drinks."

There was a pause and a quiet sigh.

"Do be careful, won't you, Sherlock?"

"I always am. Though, Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"Can you find out why she's here?"

Mycroft sighed down the phone.

"She's here to give a convert in Wigmore Hall, Sherlock. You have to… I would be very grateful if you would come to my office when you've finished there."

"I'll be there before midnight."

"Marvellous."

Mycroft hung up, and Sherlock pocketed his phone as John walked across the pub carefully carrying three drinks.

"There you are," John said, putting a pint of bitter in front of Sherlock and taking a matching one for himself. "And a vodka and coke for the mysterious red-headed pianist."

"She's not that mysterious," Sherlock said, smiling into his drink.

"Fair enough. For the beautiful and talented pianist then. Was that anything interesting?" John nodded at Sherlock's phone pocket.

"No. I'm afraid not."

The Liverpool supporter had joined a group at a table and there were sudden shouts of laughter while one of them blushed to his ears and grinned sheepishly.

Sherlock looked to John, who was watching the group too with a wistful expression on his face. Sherlock was about to speak when John turned towards him.

"Sherlock, are we OK?"

"What?"

"Nothing, sorry. Just forget I started speaking." He smiled. "We were going to talk about monkeys, remember?"

Sherlock looked at him for a while.

"John, I need a favour."

John put his drink back down.

"Of course, anything. You know that."

"I can't be left alone with Andrea."

John stared. Sherlock watched as he bit back several impolite questions.

"Yeah, of course. No problem." He picked up his beer and took a long drink.

"Thank you," Sherlock said.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have invited her. I just assumed you'd be happy for her to join us. I mean, you seemed eager to go to the concert."

Sherlock shrugged. "She's a very good piano player."

They looked up, as did most of the other inhabitants of the pub, as Andrea walked in the door and stood tall and straight as she gazed around the pub. She'd changed into trousers and a clingy, shimmering top and her hair was loose and around her shoulders now. The effect was startling. She noticed John and Sherlock and came to join them, smiling.

"Your drink," John said, pushing it over to her.

"Thanks."

"It was a wonderful performance," John said.

"We fluffed the timing in bars fifteen to thirty. The orchestra played too slowly."

"I didn't notice."

"No." Andrea glanced at Sherlock, and he noted her eyes, calm and cold which clashed with the playful smile on her face and the slight quirk of her eyebrow.

"You ran ahead," he said.

Andrea tossed her head and crossed her arms over chest.

"Well, I think most of the audience aren't quite as observant as Sherlock," John said. "I'm sure most of us came away uplifted and delighted."

"I came away uplifted and delighted," Sherlock said.

"You're _never_ uplifted and delighted," John said. "They're both emotions that fall outside your abilities."

Andrea was suddenly sweetness and light again, and she turned her smile on John.

"So, John, I've read your blog."

"And corrected it, apparently," he put in.

"Oh, I can't help that, I've got one of those brains that notices these things. I like the stories though, the cases that you work."

"Thanks."

"It leaves a lot of questions unanswered."

"Like what?"

"Like, is there a Mr or Mrs or Significant Other Watson?"

John shuffled and sat up, and Sherlock watched them both over his drink.

"I'm sort of assuming you don't share everything with Sherlock," Andrea said. "Because who would." She lowered her eyes and peeped at John through her eyelashes.

John almost gaped, but just about held it together. He smiled.

"No, we share a flat and a kettle but that's about it. And there's currently no-one else in my life." John frowned. "Well, there are lots of people in my life, but nobody significant. Well, they're all quite significant, obviously, and important, but I don't have a partner. At the moment."

Andrea gave him a slow smile.

"Well, that's made it all nice and clear, thank you."

"Are you in London long?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, for a while. I haven't really decided."

"Will you do another concert?" John asked.

"No, I've done that now. I'm not sure Michael would have me back there. I might go and mope around the Royal College for a bit and see if they have anything for me. It'll probably only be teaching the juniors though. I detest the juniors. Other than that, I'm a free agent."

"Well that's nice," John said.

"I need to make some proper money soon. I'm staying at the Holiday Inn for now, but God it's soulless and I'd like to move out soon."

"Which Holiday Inn?" Sherlock asked.

"The one just off Regent's Street. It's walking distance from here."

Sherlock sat back and ran his fingertips over his lips.

"Actually, something interesting might have just come up for me," Andrea said. "It's a bit baffling to be honest, and I wondered if you could take a look for me, Sherlock." She pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket and held it out to him.

"Sorry, we're not taking cases at the moment," he said.

"What?" John turned to him, frowning. "We're not?"

Sherlock glanced across at him.

"Well, perhaps you don't speak for both of us," John said. He took the paper from Andrea and unfolded it.

"'The Red-Headed Leads,'" he read. "'New agency seeks to represent red-headed models for artists, magazine shoots and television productions. The redder the better; high prices offered for the brightest reds. Only natural reds may apply, hair will be taken and tested for authenticity.' Well, you're certainly qualified." He looked up at Andrea and smiled.

"You don't think it sounds a bit odd though?" she asked. "I mean, I'm not sure it's even allowed is it, what with all the stupid, new discrimination laws and all that?"

"I think there are different rules for agencies," John replied. "I think they're allowed to specialise."

"So you think it's legitimate?"

John looked at the advertisement again. He turned the paper over to find that it had cut through half of an article about handbags on the reverse of the page.

"Well it's clearly cut from a high end fashion magazine," he said. "The paper's too thick for a Sunday supplement and the typeface is too clear. Must cost a pretty penny to advertise in one of them, I'd have thought, and they're targeting their market well. I don't imagine any fake agency would bother with the cost." He smiled at her.

"Well thank you, John," Andrea said. "My mind's certainly at rest now."

"If you want, I can go along and check them out tomorrow. I mean, not to try to apply or anything. I can see if they exist and seem legitimate though. Let me have your number and I'll give you a ring afterwards."

"Let me have your phone," she said. "I'll programme it in for you."

John handed it across, and Sherlock watched through half closed eyes as she tapped her number on the screen.

"Evening, guys!"

They all looked up to see Lestrade, slightly out of breath, but smiling at them.

"Greg?" John asked. "What are you doing here?"

"I had some business down at Oxford Circus. Nothing really, not interesting business. Thought I'd stop by here for a drink."

"What a coincidence," John said, dryly.

"Mind if I join you?"

"No, not at all," Sherlock said, sitting forward. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is Andrea Thakery, an old friend of mine. Sit down, I'll get you a drink."

"Don't mind if I do," Lestrade said, pulling up a chair.

Sherlock stood and wandered to the bar. He leaned there watching the party of three. John and Andrea's body language was clearly showing discomfort and Lestrade making a good effort to seem oblivious to it. Sherlock ordered him a drink and carried it back.

"I was thinking of making a move shortly," he said.

"Of course, you've got those important things to do," John said. He didn't look at Sherlock, but played with a beermat on the table.

Sherlock barely gave him a glance.

"It was nice to see you again, Andrea. Once again, congratulations on a wonderful performance."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," she said.

He stood up and left. As he got to the door he heard Andrea laughing loudly at something that John had said.

He walked along the road, lighting a cigarette as he walked and strolled quickly along in parallel with Oxford Street. When he'd finished his cigarette, he ducked through to the main road and hailed a cab.

oOo

Mycroft's office was as cold and depressing as it always was. His secretary had long since left for the night so Sherlock walked straight in. Mycroft was on the phone, but he waved Sherlock into a chair, and Sherlock slumped into it.

Sherlock glowered.

Eventually Mycroft finished and hung up.

"Tell me about the hotel," he said.

"I don't work for you!" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft smiled his reptilian smile.

"Dear brother, if you would be so kind, could you possibly tell me about your excursion to the hotel?"

"There's nothing to tell. I didn't see Able. He's not a popular or longstanding member of staff. Some people hadn't heard of him, and he hasn't been seen for two days. I take it your people don't have him?"

"They do not."

"The only other remarkable fact is that Andrea Thakery has taken a room there."

Mycroft shrugged.

"It's convenient to Wigmore Hall."

"So you don't consider the timing of her arrival at that particular hotel intriguing?"

"No, I can't say I do."

"So she just happened to arrive now, and just happened to have a case for me."

"Apparently so." Mycroft sat back and observed his brother. "You look tired," he said.

"I'm fine."

"Do you want to work?"

Sherlock made a half-nod half-shrug motion.

"The most recent developments are filed there." Mycroft nodded to a second, smaller desk at the side of his room. Sherlock waited for a moment before stalking over, sitting down, and reading the files.

They worked in silence for about an hour, Mycroft making notes and observing his brother.

"If you're going to keep staring at me, why don't you make yourself useful and order some coffee," Sherlock eventually snapped.

"Sherlock, might it be advisable for you to go home and get some rest?" Mycroft asked.

"No."

"Perhaps it's about time we brought John in."

"No."

"Why did you take him to the performance tonight if you thought that Andrea was involved with Moran's crowd?"

Sherlock spun sharply in his chair and snarled at him.

"Because…"

There was a knock at the door and Lestrade walked in.

"Evening." He checked his watch. "Morning."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock snapped. "Why aren't you with John?"

"John shook me off," Lestrade said crossly. "He shook me off pretty vehemently. Surely a more interesting question is why you haven't brought John in on this yet?"

"Sherlock, it doesn't matter," Mycroft said. "My men are following him. They'll take care of him."

"Your men feign friendship and get him drunk!" Sherlock shouted.

"And yet they appear able to stay sober. They're not forcing his hand."

"So he's been left him alone with Andrea, and your ever-so-friendly men are probably all the way along the corridor!"

"I'm pretty damn sure he _wanted_ to be left alone with Andrea, Sherlock!" Lestrade said. "If you're not going to bring him in, then at least let him go and make his own fun."

"Oh, you're also of the opinion that her presence here is just a coincidence."

Sherlock stood up, sending the chair he was sitting on crashing into the desk.

"Sherlock, you're clearly becoming too emotional again," Mycroft said.

"Oh shut up, Mycroft!" Sherlock said.

He stormed past Lestrade and away out into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

John closed the front door, kicked his shoes into a corner and walked up the wooden stairs as quietly as he could manage. The third step from the top creaked under his weight, but it wasn't loud enough to wake the sleeping residents of the house.

There was a dim light glowing in the living room, and he went in to find Sherlock slouched in his armchair. There was an open book on his lap, but Sherlock was ignoring it and staring across the room. He looked up as John came in.

"You're back late," he said.

"Yeah." John glanced at the clock. "Or early, depending on your point of view."

"Where were you?"

John's eyebrows jolted.

"I walked Andrea back to her hotel room."

"And the rest of the time?"

John rolled his eyes. "First off, I don't think you set my curfew, do you? And secondly, use your imagination, for crying out loud."

He stomped through the kitchen towards the bathroom. He knew that Sherlock was watching him, observing the tension in his calf muscles and his hands which were balled into fists. He turned the light on in the bathroom and glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked tired and felt old.

He turned to the toilet to relieve himself.

"I don't trust Andrea," Sherlock said from behind him.

"Christ!" John jumped. "For God's sake, Sherlock, could you give me some privacy for thirty bloody seconds? Get out!"

The door closed.

John finished and washed his hands and face with cold water. He watched the water spiral down the plughole and wished it was as easy to wash all his tension away. He decided to go straight to bed and leave any difficult conversations until the morning when at least he'd have a little more sleep inside him, and there might be a vague chance he would remain calm.

He walked back into the living room to find Sherlock back in his armchair, staring at the fireplace.

"So why don't you trust her?" he demanded.

"Because she's untrustworthy," Sherlock replied.

"Great," John shook his head and turned towards the door. He stopped when he got there and turned back to Sherlock.

"Maybe it's time that we both tried to grow up a bit, don't you think?" He looked at Sherlock who was staring at him. He was alert but his face was stony with calm. "Well, maybe it's time for me to grow up anyway. You can do what the hell you like, of course, but this…" John gestured around the room, "maybe it's time that I recognised that this isn't real life. Maybe it's time for me to get a job, get a partner, and just go and settle down somewhere. Maybe that's what tonight was all about; me realising that."

"You've got a job," Sherlock said.

"No, _you've_ got a job. I've got nothing. You're apparently the one deciding whether we take on a case, or whether we're even in the business for new cases, and I'm just sitting around waiting for something to happen. Maybe I'm sick of the waiting now."

He turned towards the stairs again, but spun around and came back to the living room again.

"I know you're working on something, Sherlock," he hissed. "I'm not stupid; I can read the signs. I get that sometimes in business there's stuff that the office juniors can't know, but I thought we were better than that. I thought that _we_ were friends."

Sherlock looked tense now. His eyes were fixed on John and there was an ugly, bilious expression on his face.

"Oh, you're upset now," John said. "Or angry or one of those emotions that you have managed to get a handle on. Well, I don't care! I'm sick of this!" John broke off to pace around the room with his heart racing in his throat, and utterly unable to calm it down. "You came back! Marvellous! Great! And things were all going to go back to normal, but they haven't! You watch me walking around the flat, and going out, and coming in, but you don't want to bother actually _talking_ to me, or sharing with me, or anything like that! You're not even half the man you were before you went away! You're supposed to be my best friend! That's news to you, isn't it! You're supposed to be my best friend but you're not even…" John swallowed back the words.

"I'm not even what?"

John stared at Sherlock. His adrenalin had drained away leaving nothing but a dull ache.

"My best friend," he said. "Hell, you're barely even a passing acquaintance now."

He sagged, suddenly exhausted, and he turned and walked up the stairs leaning heavily on the handrail as he went. He got into his room and threw himself down on his bed, wrapping his arms around his head. He took some deep breaths which entirely failed to soothe him.

It wasn't long before he heard Sherlock's calm, measured footfalls coming up the stairs. John clenched his jaw and grabbed handfuls of his hair into his fists.

Sherlock stopped in the bedroom doorway, and John could feel the aggression building in him again as the silence lengthened.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said quietly.

The tension drained out of John in an instant. He moved his hands and looked at Sherlock. He was still in the doorway, his toes at the edge of the threshold in the most careful observation of personal space that John had ever seen.

John sighed and shook his head.

"If it helps at all, I'm quite sorry for using the term 'best friend' quite so often during my little tantrum. I am actually aware that we're not both six."

Sherlock sagged and smiled. He walked one step into the room.

"John, the Moriarty and Moran case isn't closed."

"But Moriarty is dead and Moran's in prison."

"Yes, that's true but the network – the _web_ – is still active. The case is still very much open, and we have reason to believe that the network is bent on destroying me and killing you."

John stared.

"OK, and the reason that you didn't mention this before is…?"

"They want to destroy me and kill you."

"What I'm saying is; I'm probably better able to protect us if I have that information."

"Yes. That theory was raised and discussed, but we opted for the safer option of disassociating you from me. That way, regardless of what happened to me, you'll still be safe."

"And 'we' is who?"

"Me, Mycroft and Lestrade."

"So telling me now is…?"

"Plan B."

"And we're on plan B because…?"

"Plan A was clearly stupid, and apparently unworkable."

John looked at the ceiling and sighed.

"OK." He scooted back on the bed until he was sitting up and leaning against the headboard. "OK, tell me from the start, and explain it really slowly and clearly because I'm quite tired." He nodded at his desk chair and Sherlock sat down.

"Well, the easy part to explain is that Moriarty, when he died, had something that he left in Moran's possession."

"Right," John said. "Mycroft said he made up all that stuff about a computer key to cover up whatever he really had. And was it the computer key that the assassins were sent to get, or was it the real thing? Wait, they had to keep you alive, so… actually, I have to admit I'm not completely clear about their role." Sherlock smiled at him, and he frowned. "The point is; the computer key doesn't exist. So what is it that Moran has?"

"A computer key."

"What?"

Sherlock looked slightly shame-faced.

"It would seem that he did in fact have some sort of computer programme that would be, theoretically, quite destructive. Or at least we think so."

John nodded but let Sherlock speak.

"There are some things we know for sure. We know that such a programme couldn't be written with simple binary; that much is obvious. So if it does exist it will need to be stored somewhere such as a disk, or a hard-drive, or a memory stick. At the moment we're assuming memory stick."

"If it does exist," John echoed.

"Yes. We're not sure."

"You're not sure? I mean, _you're_ not sure?"

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. He put his feet up on John's bed and stared at the wall.

"John," he said quietly, "I'm not working properly. My brain is not working as well as it usually does."

John looked at him.

"OK," he said slowly. "In what way is it not working?"

"It's not working in the sense that I'm not certain about anything at the moment. There might be a key code, but it might be that Moriarty took the precaution of convincing his inner circle so that the lie was consistent, and I don't know for sure which it is. Perhaps what Moran is doing is the equivalent of 'name rank and number'. I don't know. We're quietly assuming there is a key code, but that brings other questions that I can't answer. If there is a code, what format is it in? And where is it now?" He sighed and continued staring at the wall. "And then there's Andrea. Why is Andrea here now? What's her connection? Is there a connection?" He paused and sighed again. "And then there is the other question. Should I tell John? That last one's been bothering me for weeks. Unlike any of the others, I can't start testing either solution because I can't un-tell you afterwards."

"It's certainly a dilemma," John agreed, nodding sagely. "I don't know what you should do about that."

Sherlock gave him a small smile. They sat in silence for a short while.

"Sherlock? Can I test a theory on you?"

Sherlock glanced at him and gave a slight nod.

"When did you last sleep?" John asked. "Am I right in thinking that you've been watching me like a hawk when I'm awake, fretting, or possibly following me when I'm out, and then working all night when I'm asleep?"

"I don't need that much sleep," Sherlock grumbled. "We've discussed this before."

"Yes, and those discussions have ended unsatisfactorily."

"So says you."

"Yes, so says me. If this has been going on for weeks, possibly for the two months since you've been back, then that sort of sleep deprivation is going to cause a real problem. As you seem to be experiencing."

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, that doesn't work. Usually if my brain needs more sleep to function properly, I just switch it off and go to sleep for a while. That hasn't worked of late. It won't turn off. It just keeps firing all these ridiculous, unsatisfying theories at me until I get up again."

"For two months?" John sat up, concerned.

"No, only for the past two weeks or so, since we found out about Able."

"Who's Able? No, wait, let's talk about Able in the morning."

"It is the morning."

"Don't be a smart arse. Go to bed. Let's aim to get up at ten and see if we can work out the rest of this then."

For a second, John thought Sherlock was going to continue arguing, but he didn't. He just nodded once and left. John stayed where he was for five minutes, thinking about all of this, and then he got up to get ready for bed. When he'd finished, he went downstairs and quietly looked into Sherlock's room. The detective had stripped and rolled himself into his sheet. He was gently snoring.

"Guess your off-switch is working again then," John muttered.

He walked back up to his bedroom feeling several stone lighter than he had felt an hour before.

oOo

John buttered his toast and hummed along to the radio. He picked up his plate with one hand, and his tea with the other, and he plodded through to Sherlock's room, where Sherlock was still snoring and peaceful.

John stood on one leg and prodded Sherlock with a toe.

Sherlock jumped, snorted, sniffed and shook his head.

"It's ten o'clock," John said. "Actually, it's seventeen minutes past ten now."

He left again.

Several minutes later, Sherlock sauntered through the kitchen where he picked up the conveniently waiting mug of coffee that was on the kitchen table. He yawned and scratched his head as he walked. John was sitting at the desk, eating his toast and reading a newspaper while his tea steamed gently in the morning sunshine.

"Go back to your room, put some clothes on, and then come back," John said, without looking up.

"It's just you!"

"Mrs Hudson might come up."

"She doesn't mind."

"She does mind. Go away, and return when you're vaguely respectable."

Sherlock scowled, but he turned on his heel and went back to his bedroom. He returned a few minutes later wearing an ironed pair of pyjamas and his best, Chinese silk dressing gown.

"Better?" he asked.

"It'll do," John replied, still not looking up.

Sherlock sat down in John's armchair and put his feet up on the other one. He drank some coffee and stared at John.

"So," John said, putting his paper down and turning towards him. "Who is Able? I've worked out that he's in Moriarty's gang, and he must be fairly high up. He's number three perhaps?"

Sherlock stretched his feet, curling his long toes.

"I think it's inaccurate to think of Moriarty as having a gang or an organisational rank system. It's an inelegant analogy for what was a very sophisticated system. 'Gang' implies some sort of small, tight group, but I think, in reality, a lot of people were involved with Moriarty, and very few people actually met him. He wasn't very close to any of them. Moran met him twice as far as we can tell, and only when there was a dire need. Hell, I was arguably closer to Moriarty than he was." Sherlock was silent for a while as he thought about this.

"But Moran certainly was Moriarty's most favoured aid," he went on. "He used him a lot when he needed to make contact with lesser people. We were favoured, John," he raised his eyebrows. "We got to meet the man himself. So did that reporter woman."

"Kitty."

"Yes, her. She was part of his game with us. She was special. I know he conversed with Ms Adler by phone too, but I don't think they met face to face. So Moran was trusted highly, despite the brevity of their contact, and it was he who Moriarty trusted with the key. Or he trusted him with the pretend key, or the secret that the key doesn't exist, or whatever else it is that he actually has."

"So you're no clearer on that this morning?"

"I'm edging towards thinking it's the key and it's real. Certainly he gave Moran something tangible to Moran. The something tangible seems to have moved on."

"To Able?"

"We think so."

"Ah yes, you and your little team."

Sherlock looked up sharply. "John you understand…" he drifted off.

"Yes, I understand. Doesn't mean that I'm not going to feel a bit hurt though. There may be some punitive actions; I haven't decided yet."

Sherlock watched him for a moment and eventually opted for a smile.

John cleared his throat. "So, Moran trusts Able."

"I don't know."

John frowned.

"But he gave him the key."

"Possibly. Able may have the key, we're not sure, and even if he does, we're not sure how he got it. We don't know if Moran gave it to him, or whether it was passed on by accident, or whether Able knew what it was and stole it."

Sherlock sighed and stared out of the window, sitting quietly and still.

"What are you thinking about?" John asked after a minute.

Sherlock frowned.

"I'm thinking about an almond Danish. You're going to sleep idea didn't fix my brain."

John grinned.

"That's because you're hungry. Here's my suggestion: let's forget about it."

"What?"

John smiled and waved a creased piece of paper.

"I have my own case, remember? I promised Andrea I'd go and look at this place, and it's getting late. Let's have a quick shufti at this agency, and on the way we can feed you up, and then you can talk at me about the Able thing and see if we can't resolve this mental block."

Sherlock stared.

"You want me to go and get dressed?" he asked, incredulous.

John shrugged.

"Well you could go like that if you want. It makes no difference to me."

"I can't believe you made me waste several minutes of my time putting this stuff on for a mere forty-five minutes!" He stood up and stomped to his room, still muttering about this grave injustice.

John smiled and picked up the advertisement to read it again.

* * *

**Apologies for the delay – it's been a somewhat stressful week. More soon though, and thank you for the reviews. Pip xxx**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

John walked briskly alongside Sherlock. The sun was shining, though it wasn't too hot yet. He'd just finished eating what was possibly the finest bacon sandwich ever in the history of the world, and he was sipping reasonably good coffee from a polystyrene cup. The air felt clean and summery, and life was good.

Sherlock had a similar cup in his hand. He'd virtually inhaled the cinnamon roll he'd been forced to settle for, and then they were up and outside and marching along the pavement to the tube station. To _a_ tube station anyway; they'd already passed two. John vaguely wondered whether they'd ever find an acceptable one, but he didn't care enough actually ask out loud.

Sherlock's coffee occasionally rose to his mouth, but as yet he hadn't managed to take a break in the stream of consciousness that was currently pouring forth from him, so the coffee cup remained full, and would descend again, un-tasted.

"… so that's when we discovered he was working in the hotel. Lestrade said we should assume he was just there because he needed low-grade work in a hurry, which, of course, is ridiculous, and Mycroft told him so. Mycroft is quite right; there are other, less conspicuous places where such a man might find work, but he, Mycroft, that is, is of the opinion that the hotel is certainly connected with the key," the slightest of pauses and a frown, "do you mind if I call it the key? It isn't really a key of course, it's a code or more correctly, a _programme_, but it does unlock stuff, insofar as we know what it does, or whether it exists, so we've been calling it a key, though it occurs to me now that a computer key might actually refer to a loose button on a keyboard."

Sherlock's body tried to cut in at this point, and the coffee rose again, but he also used the pause to take an enormous breath, and he'd started talking again before the coffee got a look in.

"I think Mycroft's wrong about the hotel thing, well, he's right that he must be there for a scheme, but it might not be the scheme connected to Moran and the key. Able's into a lot of stuff, and it's possible that he doesn't even know what the key is; he's really not that bright. Not that bright by anyone's standards, incidentally, not just by mine. So not bright, but in possession of the key." Here there was another failed attempt to drink the coffee. "This is one reason that we don't think Moran would have trusted him with it in the first place. At least, that's what Mycroft and I think, Lestrade thinks it's possible, but even he was forced to admit that Moran was quite surprised when we told him that Able has the key. He didn't know, which means he didn't give it to him willingly, but he could be bluffing or covering, of course, and so far he's admitted that there is a key, that there isn't a key, that it's a physical key, but the sort that opens a locker or a safety deposit box, and that got Lestrade worried, as he hinted that there was some sort of bomb, and you know what the police do with hints of that sort, so then he went off, but Moran was back to saying there is no key, and there is a key and it's to do with computers, and that it's binary and it's in my head like Moriarty suggested all along. Christ, I need this coffee. So will you be seeing her again?"

John jolted into the present and looked at Sherlock who was desperately gulping down the coffee.

"What?"

Sherlock swallowed.

"Andrea. Will you see her again?"

John took a deep breath and looked steadfastly at the tube station they were heading towards.

"Well, I'm looking into this agency thing," he said, "so I'd say it's pretty likely."

"I meant recreationally."

"I'm not sure I like that term." John grimaced, and slowed down their pace a bit. "But no, probably not."

"Huh. So what do you think of the key case? You've heard all the facts. What's your opinion?"

"Well I…"

Sherlock glanced up.

"This is the wrong tube station!"

"We could always get a…"

"Taxi!" Sherlock yelled. He threw his empty cup into a convenient bin and stood in the gutter waving at a cab. John sighed, threw his own cup away, and got into the cab behind Sherlock.

"Where to, mate?" the driver mumbled.

"Farrier Street, Camden," Sherlock barked. He turned back to John. "You think Able and the hotel are connected to the key too, don't you?"

"Hold up!" John answered. "Give me half a second, will you? So what's this Able chap like? Other than 'not that clever', I mean. After all, when you say that, it does cover the vast majority of the human population."

"He's clever in quite specific ways. Moriarty did like clever, remember, so we can assume there must be something in him, and there is. His main business is in drugs. I'm not talking the legitimate pharmaceutical industry, you understand."

"I got that, thanks."

John sat back and put his seatbelt on, wondering if Sherlock's brain was going to start spilling out again.

"The drugs world is the true underbelly of this bright clean world with all its nice clean doctors and teachers and scrubbed and polished schoolchildren going for their daily lessons." Sherlock spoke quietly and looked distant. "It's always there, just under the surface, and there is some crossover, but most people avert their eyes and choose not to see it. It's has its own infrastructure and its tentacles reach out everywhere, like bindweed, choking life wherever it can, from the tramps in the subway to the politician's kids at their champagne parties. There are people like Able who understand how it all works. He knows every inch of it. He knows every boat that carries blocks of heroin across the channel, and every backpacker who takes it to dealers and distributers, and he can trace every gram to its final destination. It's a complex world and Able knows it through and through. He knows who needs what, how much they'll pay for it and where they'll get it from."

"OK," John said, "so he's clever with drugs, and that's why Moriarty picked him up."

"Mm. It's also why five pence over the minimum wage isn't going to attract him to a job in a hotel." Sherlock leaned forwards and rested his chin on his fingertips. "What I don't understand is how he got the key. How has he got that?"

They sat in silence for a while until Sherlock looked at John out of the corner of his eyes.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well what?"

"Well, how has Able got the key?"

"I don't know!" John said, frowning.

Sherlock shook his head in frustration.

"I know _you_don't know. How could you if I don't know? You need to ask the question!"

"What ques…" John caught the glare in Sherlock's eye. "Sorry. So, how has this Able person got the key?"

Sherlock sat back quietly and stared at the headrest on the driver's seat.

"He wasn't given it. He had contact with Moran not long before Moran was arrested, and he must have taken it then. Was it deliberate, or was it an accident? Did he know what he was picking up when he took it? And what caused Moran to make such a mistake?" He closed his eyes and sat silently for a minute. "No," he said, opening them again. "He must have known it was important at the very least. Could this be the essence of a rift between these two men? Could Moran's arrest be the reason that Able has crept out into the sunlight?"

"Maybe," John said. Sherlock gave him a look. "OK, let's put this idle speculation aside…"

"It's not _idle!"_ Sherlock complained.

"Fine, either way, let's move on. What's all this about a hotel?"

"Oh, Able has taken a job in a hotel," Sherlock explained dismissively. "Didn't I tell you this? I'm sure you were there this time. About three weeks ago, Able took a job at the Holiday Inn that your new friend Andrea's staying in."

John's hand suddenly flicked out and caught Sherlock's wrist.

"What?" Sherlock asked frowning.

"Does he, by any chance, work as a concierge?" John asked.

"He does," Sherlock confirmed. "He's only part time, and he seems to have been given the early morning… what?"

John had taken the magazine advertisement out of his pocket and was unfolding it.

"This was given to Andrea by a concierge who noticed her nice red hair. Coincidence, do you think?"

Sherlock snatched the piece of paper from him and quickly examined it.

"Why didn't you tell me this before!" he demanded.

"I didn't know!"

Sherlock ignored him.

"No, no, no, this is all wrong. Look at this!" he waved the advert under John's nose. "There's no magazine printed that uses this particular typeface on paper of this grade! How could you not have noticed this?"

"I haven't made a study of fashion magazines, Sherlock."

"Clearly," Sherlock said scathingly. "I have been working on a little pamphlet comparing all of these, but of course you'd never read it. Not exciting enough." He looked up again. "Now why would Able have made up an advertisement and give it to Andrea Thakery?"

"I don't know," John said, after a pause. "Maybe... maybe it's not important that she came _here_. Maybe he just needed some way of getting her out the way for a while, so he made the advert up as bait."

Sherlock glared.

"That's the most ludicrous suggestion I've ever heard! She's out of the hotel all the time, for rehearsals and then for the performance. Her room is empty half of the time without him going to the trouble of setting this up. It's a ridiculous suggestion, John!"

"Well what do you suggest then?" John asked, his voice rising.

"I don't know!" Sherlock snapped back. "If you'd have had the sense to tell me about the Able connection right at the very beginning…"

"One, how could I when you've been talking continuously for the past hour and a half, and two, I didn't _know!"_

"Well you _should _have known!"

John seethed.

This whole trip has been a stupid waste of everybody's time!" Sherlock complained. "Who knows what we're going to find out here in Camden," Sherlock grumbled. "Nothing important, undoubtedly, and certainly not a talent agency called Red Headed Leads!"

He turned to the window in a huff just as the taxi pulled into the side of the road. John, looking past him, saw the bright sign 'Red Headed Leads' placed in the sash window of one of the offices on the other side of the road. He saw Sherlock's frown reflected in the window as he stared, incredulously, at the building. Sherlock turned back to John.

"Stay in the cab," he commanded.

"What?"

"Clearly we were expected to come here and go inside that building, therefore it will be dangerous for you, so stay in the cab.

"Not bloody likely!"

"John!"

"Er, we're here," the cabbie put in.

Sherlock continued to glare at John, who raised his eyebrows, nonplussed.

"OK, Sherlock, let me ask you a question first." Sherlock's face flickered into a frown. "What are you actually sorry for?" John asked him.

"What?"

"Yesterday you came upstairs to my bedroom, and apologised. You weren't particularly clear about what for at the time, and today you've continued to act like a massive dick, so I'll ask again; what, precisely, are you sorry for?"

Sherlock looked at him for a while, and then turned to stare at the headrest again.

"Well?" John asked.

"I don't think I can articulate it at this time," Sherlock muttered.

"The clock's still running," the cabbie mentioned, sounding embarrassed. "I just thought I'd mention."

"That's OK," John said to Sherlock. "You can write it all down for me later. In the meantime, stop treating me like a child." He got out of the cab and walked briskly across the road to the Red Headed Leads office.

The building that housed the agency was an old, Victorian town-house in a terrace of identical office conversions that ran the length of the road. As John got closer, he began to think that the agency didn't look quite as legitimate as it had from the cab. The sign in the window was professionally printed on stiff plastic, but it was stuck to the window with blu-tack. The slatted blinds fitted the window, but they were dusty and looked as though they'd just been left and forgotten by the previous occupiers.

John looked up as Sherlock joined him.

"Perhaps not after all?" he said, with a smile.

Sherlock wasn't smiling. His mouth was a firm line and his jaw was jutting out.

"What is it?" John asked.

"That," Sherlock said, pointing at the window frame.

John looked. It took a moment for him to see it among the rest of the paint that was chipped and peeling away from the wood, but then he found what Sherlock was looking at. At a point several inches away from the edge of the window was a larger, geometric shape, which had clearly been etched deliberately into the paint. It was in the shape of two triangles, the upper one inverted and balancing on the lower one to make the shape of an abstract hour-glass.

"What is it?" John asked.

"It's there for me," Sherlock replied. "Come on, let's go."

He turned quickly and barrelled straight into another pedestrian who staggered and dropped her handbag and the map she was carrying.

"God, are you OK?" John asked. He focussed on the woman as Sherlock picked up the fallen items. "Andrea?"

"Oh, hi there, John," she said blandly. "You didn't bother to call me then, after you scurried out of my room while I was sleeping. That was polite, I thought."

"Oh, er…" John blushed to the tops of his ears.

"Andrea," Sherlock said, handing her back the map with a smile. "Now why would you be here?"


	5. Chapter 5

**I just wanted to say a big thank you to Rustyla for tidying up some of the earlier chapters. Thank you all very much for the reviews! I'm pleased that you're enjoying this one. Pip xxx**

* * *

Chapter Five

Andrea glared at Sherlock with cold eyes.

"As nobody seemed particularly bothered about Red Headed Leads," she said, "I made an appointment myself."

"We did care!" John said indignantly, and Sherlock glanced to see the outraged look on his face. "Well _I_ cared anyway," John clarified. "I'm here, aren't I? Investigating for you."

"Well you needn't have bothered," she replied. "I saw Simon again today, and he told me his cousin had signed up here and they were already making her a mint. Apparently, some people can still be relied on."

"Right. Good," John said.

"Don't let us hold you back," Sherlock said, and he stood aside with a wide smile. As Andrea pushed past him he immediately started striding down the street. John was left behind only briefly, and Sherlock soon sensed him hurrying along to him.

"So there is a Red Headed Leads after all?" John asked.

"Let's see, shall we?"

He stopped sharply and grabbed John's arm, pulling him around so that they were looking back at the agency office. Andrea Thakery was hurrying away in the other direction. Sherlock smiled grimly as he watched her tottering along on her high heels.

"What's that all about?" John asked. "A sudden change of mind? No answer at the door?"

"Probably both," Sherlock said. He smiled and shook his head. "You should probably mark this momentous event John!"

"What event's that?

"I was wrong!"

Sherlock turned again and walked on towards the main road to find a taxi. His mind was still racing, but there was a strange niggle at the back of his mind that John was smirking as he marched along beside him. He dismissed it and hailed a cab.

"Holiday Inn, Gloucester Place, please," Sherlock snapped as he settled on the seat. Eventually could ignore John's amusement no longer, and he turned to him.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," John answered. "I'm just enjoying myself. So what were you wrong about this time?"

"That mark. It wasn't there for me after all; it was there for her." His brain screeched to a sudden stop. "Wait! What do you mean; 'this time'?"

"Well it's hardly the first time you've been wrong is it." John answered, looking annoyingly smug. "You were wrong about the sugar that time in Devon. I seem to remember you dismissing the cab as irrelevant on our first meeting, despite the fact that it was being driven by a murderer. There was the whole 'I'll get the photos by this evening!' thing at the Palace that time. You were wrong about that."

"I got them back, didn't I?" Sherlock snapped.

"Yeah, after six months." John said. "So anyway, what about this mark then? Are you going to tell me about that?"

"I had no idea you were following me around logging all of my failures."

"You just told me I should mark the momentous event. I'm just saying; I've already got that well under control. Now are you going to tell me about that mark, or are you just going to sit there sulking?"

Sherlock found himself weighing up the benefits of both courses before he shook of emotions in favour of facts.

"That particular mark signifies a group known as Flint Heath," he said. "I first came across them ten years ago or more; they're what you would probably call a drugs gang or something of that ilk. They dealt with supply and demand around the Harrow area."

"Harrow?" John's brow furrowed.

"Yes. Do you know of the geography of that area?"

"Not really. I know it's posh though, and I know the school's there, obviously."

Sherlock's jaw clenched.

"So you think that Andrea is mixed up with them too?" John asked.

"Oh, I know she is for sure."

"How do you…" John stopped and closed his eyes. He breathed out slowly. "Why didn't you just say; 'John, Andrea Thakery got me into drugs ten years ago, you might want to take that into account before you, I don't know, invite her out the pub with us.' Hell, why did you even suggest that we go to watch her concert? I'd have just have soon not gone!"

Sherlock wondered why he had. Looking back now, it had been a desperately bad idea.

"She's a good piano player," he replied with a shrug. "I needed to suggest something that evening, and the concert was convenient. I didn't foresee meeting her afterwards, or you becoming interested in her."

John shook his head.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" he persisted. "For that matter, why did you need to suggest something to do that evening?"

Sherlock sniffed and turned away to look at the shoppers they were passing. Many of them were parts of couples or groups or pairs, and they laughed and smiled as they passed. He thought about the strange phenomenon wherein most people could manage friendships with hardly any effort at all, whereas he could barely keep a single one afloat. On the other hand, he could solve cases as easily as breathing, whereas most people couldn't process even the most simple of facts. He wondered, briefly, whether he'd be prepared to sacrifice one capability for the other.

He could feel John's gaze burning into the back of his neck.

"Come on," John said gently. "You were telling me about these drugs people. Flint something wasn't it?"

Sherlock smiled in recognition that he'd at least chosen a spectacularly fine person as a friend.

"Flint Heath," he said, "after the estate that they originate from. Harrow used to be on the boarder of where they would distribute, and if you were to move south east to Wembley you took in the centre of their area. Not far beyond that, you've got Wormwood Scrubs and White City, which was not beyond their control. That was all overseen by Able and his friends. Through the years I have occasionally…" Sherlock stared at nothing through the window and sighed heavily. "Occasionally I may have found reason to reacquaint myself with Flint Heath's activities," he flushed slightly and wondered if John would connect the dots. If he did, he chose not to comment. "I've heard rumours and stories," Sherlock went on. "I knew there were turf wars between them and Able, and then it all went quiet several few years ago. There was a struggle, a push, and Able took control of them. Yesterday evening, I wondered whether Andrea had been pushed into my path. Now I'm certain of it."

John frowned at him.

"You think that Able knows about your past with drugs?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And he's trying to draw you into that?"

"Yes."

John shook his head and frowned out the window.

"What?" Sherlock asked, feeling strangely nervous.

"Nothing," John replied, turning back to him. "Well, not nothing; it's the same, continual frustration that you won't just _tell_ me this stuff."

"Why, what would you have done?"

"I don't know," John shrugged. "Probably have gone round to the hotel and shot him or something."

Sherlock smiled and felt some of the sudden tension melt away.

"Well, I'll bear that in mind next time," he said.

"Also, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have gone back to Andrea's hotel room last night."

"Had I have known she was connected to Able and Flint Heath, there's no way I'd have let you."

"So anyway," John said, shaking this off. "Why are we going to the hotel now? Are we expecting to meet Able? Wouldn't you like me to go home and get armed up first?"

"No, no need, I just want to see inside Andrea's room."

"Well, I've seen in Andrea's room. I could just describe it to you."

Sherlock glanced at him.

"You'll have missed anything pertinent."

John glared.

"Look, we both know that you have many and varied admirable qualities," Sherlock said. "But observation is clearly _my_ area."

"Right, so what are you expecting to see?"

"I don't know until I see it, but I'm willing to bet that Able will have been in the room during the time that Andrea's been out. I suspect he forced her to make the appointment at the agency to get her out of the room."

"Hang on a second…" John said.

"No," Sherlock quickly interrupted, "you'll just have to accept that you unwittingly hit on the right reason by accident."

"Oh, will I?" John asked, but he was clearly supressing a smile.

"Yes. I saw Able's shift sheet when I was at the hotel yesterday. He's been working early shifts, properly early; he's been covering from four AM until eleven on three mornings a week. Andrea arrived at the hotel six days ago. Since then, Able's became erratic. He asked to swap some shifts, and he didn't turn up at all on several occasions. Her movements follow a set pattern too; she works in the afternoon at rehearsals, stays out late, and sleeps late the next day. She's in her room the entire time that Able's at work so he needed to manufacture a way to get her out of her room. He made up the agency, he faked the advert and the shop front, and he answered the phone to her when she called. I'm willing to bet that the only appointment was conveniently at the end of his shift this morning. Now, I suggest we go and have a look and see what's been disturbed."

"OK then." John shrugged and looked out of the window again.

Sherlock floundered again, wondering what on earth he might have said wrong this time.

"I'm pleased you're here with me," he said.

"What?" John's head spun to face him again. He looked amused by something.

"You'll be able to lead us to the room without having to bother the reception staff again," Sherlock said. "They got quite short with me yesterday."

"I'll bet they did," John muttered.

"We're here. Look sharp; if Andrea doesn't have anywhere else to go, she'll be right behind us."

He darted from the cab leaving John to pay and hurried into the hotel, through the lobby and to the lift, pushing the call button as he got there. John was just as the doors opened and they strode inside.

"What floor?" Sherlock asked.

"Seven. And you owe me twenty quid."

"You were had," Sherlock said, pressing the floor button.

"I didn't wait for change."

Sherlock rocked back and forth onto his toes as they travelled upwards.

"Wait a second," John said. "How will we get into her room?"

"Oh, I stole her swipe-card when she conveniently dropped her bag."

John sighed dramatically.

"One of these days, you'll get us both arrested."

Sherlock stopped rocking to frown at John.

"I already have!" The door opened and he pounced into the corridor. It stretched away in both directions with hideous, brown patterned carpet and dizzying strip lighting. A few cheap paintings had been hung between the identical brown doors, but they did little to counter the depressing quality of the place.

"Come on," Sherlock barked, "what's the room number."

"I don't remember, but it's down this way."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, following him.

"As sure as can be expected."

"What does that mean?"

John looked back at him over his shoulder.

"It means I was slightly tipsy and had some other things on my mind."

"But you left again later when _things_ were entirely behind you!"

"Yes, and then I had my mind on other, different things. I'm relatively certain it's on the left though." He came to a standstill outside room 711 and looked at the doors to the left and right of it, biting his lip. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's this one."

Sherlock glared.

"I'm finding your confidence very soothing."

"What happened to 'I'm glad you're here'? Just give me the key, and let's find out."

Sherlock passed him the card and John inserted it into the slot above the door handle. There was a tense moment of held breath before the green light glowed and there was a quiet beep. John took the opportunity to smile smugly at Sherlock before he opened the door. Sherlock followed him in and almost bumped straight into him.

"Well, it doesn't look quite as I remember it," John said.

Sherlock quickly took in the state of the room. It was a standard, cheap hotel room, containing a double bed, a dressing table next to it, large, double-glazed windows with heavy, thick curtains. There were wardrobe doors built into the wall opposite the bed, and the door to the on-suite was just beyond them. Able had clearly been here, and it appeared that he searched the room thoroughly and with increasing frustration. The drawers of the dresser had been pulled out and their contents strewn around, the bed had been pulled away from the wall and dismantled, the bedside lamps where thrown and broken, one curtain was torn from its hanger. There would clearly be nothing to find here, and humour of the situation caught Sherlock.

"I imagine you'd remember if the sex caused this mess," he said.

"Maybe she had a really bad morning?" John suggested.

"Well you had…"

"OK! Let's have a look around, shall we?"

John strode further into the room and he heaved the mattress back onto the base of the bed. He stooped to gather up the pillows and bedding too, and he threw them back on the mattress.

Sherlock watched him.

"You do understand you're not actually searching," he said. "You're more… tidying up."

John looked at him.

"Well it seems more…" he shrugged, "polite."

"Well, you'd know more than me, I suppose. On that topic, perhaps you could see Andrea again and interview her. See if you can find out what she's been told about me and what she's been asked to do."

"Well, like you say, this is my area of expertise, and you should trust me when I say there's no way I'll get a second date with her."

"Are you sure?"

John gave him a long look.

"Absolutely."

There was a rattle at the door-handle and they heard Andrea's voice outside.

"I'm sure I must have left it inside. I'm really sorry about this," she said.

Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and pulled him away from the door. They squashed against the wall where they'd be out of sight until Andrea was right inside the room.

"Not to worry, Ms Thakery," another voice replied. "If you don't find it, let us know and we'll cancel it and activate a new one for you."

"Thanks."

The door opened and Andrea strode in.

"Oh God!" she said, noticing the state of the room. She backed into the wardrobe doors. "Christ!" she squealed when she spotted John and Sherlock.

A receptionist followed Andrea in, her eyes wide with shock.

"What the hell happened… who are you?" She recovered quickly. "I'm calling the police."

"No, don't," Andrea said quickly. "No, they're friends of mine." She took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry for disturbing you, thank you for letting me in. I'm fairly sure my key is in here somewhere." She gave the receptionist a bright smile.

"But the mess!" the receptionist protested.

"Oh it was like this…" John started.

"We were just tidying up!" Sherlock said loudly. "For our friend." He smiled at Andrea.

"It really is fine," Andrea said. "I was here with my friends last night and they offered to help tidy up today."

The receptionist looked as though she was working through various scenarios in her head. Sherlock waited.

"Well, OK then," she said, when her brain had reached an avenue she really didn't want to go down. "I'll leave you alone then. Let me know if you need any help."

"Will do," Andrea smiled at her.

The receptionist backed out of the door and closed it behind her.

"What was Able looking for that's in this room?" Sherlock said. "What have you got and what have you promised him?"

"What?" Andrea stammered.

"John says you're unlikely to sleep with him again, so I have to interview you myself. What was he looking for? Drugs I'm assuming, or money."

"What? No! He's got the…"

She glanced at the bathroom door and Sherlock marched past her to open it. The cistern lid had been taken off the toilet and was lying on the floor. Sherlock pulled a Tupperware tub from the workings of the tank. It was empty and he flung it into the bathtub. He pushed past John, who was lingering in the doorway, and went back to Andrea was waiting.

"That's a neat little distribution system. People take designated rooms in the hotel and the switch over happens without anyone even seeing each other. Which did you leave? The money or the drugs?"

"The money," she whispered.

"Of course, you would. What else does he want?"

"I don't know!"

"He's torn this room apart! He wasn't just looking for the money."

"Able isn't even here! I've only spoken to him on the phone! He's miles away; the hotel hand-over is all done by his staff!"

"Not this time. You have something; you know you do too, now tell me what it is!"

Andrea quavered slightly and then she gave in. Her hand slipped inside her blouse and she pulled out a small, blue memory stick.

"It might be this," she said.

Sherlock smiled and took a step towards her.

At that moment, the wardrobe door flew open, knocking Sherlock to the floor, and a tall man in a concierge suit stormed out.

"Thank you," he said, snatching the memory stick from Andrea, and then he pushed past her and was out the room.

* * *

**Another quick note just so say, Gren Peppard and the Lost Boy by Pip Mulgrue will be available FOR FREE from Amazon Kindle store for Sat/Sun/Mon of the Diamond Jubilee weekend (2-4th June, 2012, for those of you who aren't monarched over). It'll be your last chance to get it for free for the foreseeable future as I've used up all my Amazon promotional days now.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

John had barely registered what had happened before he tore across the room after Able, leaping over Sherlock on his way. Sherlock wasn't down for long either, and he was up and after them too. He quickly caught up with John, and then overtook him as they chased their quarry along the long corridor.

Able slowed to open the door to a large cleaning cupboard at the far end. The door hadn't swung closed after him before Sherlock was in there too, and then out through the fire-door at the back of the room. John was quickly through too, and out onto the metal stairs of the external fire escape, sucking in huge lungs full of London air as he descended, half running, half jumping down the steps.

When he was level with the first floor, Able leapt over the railing of the escape and onto a wall at the back of the small yard behind the hotel. He dropped down, out of sight, into the alley that ran beyond. Sherlock followed, almost taking the distance between the railing and the wall in one giant stride, and then he was out of sight too. John took the leap without even registering the distance. He reached the wall but slipped, banging his kneecap hard. He growled at the pain, but then dismissed it as he dropped down to the alleyway. In a split second he had assessed that both legs were functioning correctly, and he spotted Sherlock and was straight on after him again.

John tore on, feeling the joy of the chase with his heart racing and his blood pumping. He was drunk on the adrenalin that was coursing through his veins and he felt properly alive for the first time in months.

Sherlock could run faster than he could, certainly with him being as out of form as he was at the moment. He wasn't that far behind though, and John wondered if part of the detective was concentrating on the exact speed to run wherein he was close enough to the thief so as not to lose him, and yet slow enough so as not to be lost by John.

John smiled grimly and pushed on harder. Sherlock's pace increased fractionally too, and the gap between them all shortened.

John forced his brain into soldier mode as they sprinted down another alley. He copied Sherlock's movements to dodge obstacles and avoid poor ground that was hidden from his view. Only once did he misjudge, and his foot crashed down into a large, muddy puddle, and the shock of the cold water against his shin was jarring. It was only for a second though, and then Able and Sherlock turned left and John struck out and followed them into a small yard.

They were closed in here; it was a dead end. Able had taken the advantage though, and he had turned quickly and forced Sherlock against a wall.

John didn't wait to see or observe the situation further. He charged Able down, taking him off balance from the side. He heard Sherlock shout something but he didn't falter from the job in hand. He pushed him away from Sherlock, and he wrestled and grappled him into a corner. He lost his footing and fell against Able, pinning him to the wall.

There was the sound of a gunshot, loud and echoing.

John found that he was suddenly thinking in abstract, disengaged thoughts. He wondered why Sherlock had brought a gun with him even while he knocked the dull, black weapon out of Able's hands. It had been cocked, and it went off a second time as it hit the ground. He hoped Sherlock hadn't been in its way. He couldn't work out why Able seemed quite so slippery and difficult to get a purchase on. He vaguely registered a strange, hot pain in his side and an odd, almost euphoric sensation. He continued to grapple with rubbery hands, moving them all over Able without any effort to find the best restraining hold. His hand formed a fist around something small and hard. Sherlock was there too, but John couldn't coordinate with him. Everywhere Sherlock was trying to move, John found he was there first, clumsily grabbing and pushing in a hopeless, futile fashion.

Able jerked away and was gone, pushing past both of them to get back into the alley.

"You OK?" Sherlock asked, panting and giving John a short glance.

"Yep," John replied, and he nodded, feeling lightheaded and strange.

Sherlock nodded once and turned back to the alley.

John took a breath and followed him. He found he was moving heavily and unable to run. The pain in his side was growing. His hands felt numb but he was able to reach inside his dark jacket to find the source of the pain, low down on the left his torso. His hand came away bloody.

"Shit," he murmured, overcome with guilt and embarrassment.

He made it into the alley and leant his forehead to rest against the rough bricks in the opposite wall.

He groped for the wound again and moved his jacket aside to look at it. He hoped the bullet hadn't found bowel. He suspected that it was just low enough to have brushed past his pelvic bone, and it might be chipped. The blood flow was strong, and the side of his checked shirt was already shiny and wet. It wasn't strong enough to indicate a hit to an artery, but he found himself growing cold and shivery nonetheless.

This was all the work of a second. He could still hear Sherlock's feet running away, but he couldn't bring himself to call out.

He thought of the distance between here and a road, and he wondered if he could at least crawl there.

He gave one, shuddering, dry sob at the thought.

oOo

Sherlock's first instinct had been to chase, following Able like a dog on the tail of a squirrel, with little or no respect for logic and thought processes as he ran. It didn't last long though, and quickly Sherlock's brain took over, and he started calculating the route to the road, the involvement of Andrea, the possible charges that could be brought and the location of the gun. He hoped that John had thought to pick it up and idly speculated whether John was wearing gloves to preserve any of Able's fingerprints. His head suddenly cleared of all thoughts but one.

John.

John wasn't following.

John _always_ followed him.

Sherlock's feet stopped with such abrupt force that his legs almost tripped over them. The rest of his body was brought into line by his brain, which had just now registered the nagging sense of doubt that he was feeling.

Sherlock turned and looked down the alley to John who was leaning with his head against the wall and his right hand clutching at his side. He started to fall as Sherlock ran. John tried to use his left to steady and guide himself down, but gravity was working against him, and he crashed to his knees.

Sherlock reached him after what felt like hours, and he grasped John's shoulder and carefully turned him around. He gently helped John to sit down on the floor, leaning him against the wall with his legs splayed out in front of him. John gave a long, sighing exhale.

"Sorry," he muttered. "You go on ahead. I'll catch up later." He took a deep breath and swayed slightly.

Sherlock steadied him again and knelt in front of him.

"Where were you hit?" he asked, already assessing the dark hole in John's side and the surrounding spread of sodden shirt.

"I'm fine," John murmured. "Don't think anything important got…"

Sherlock fumbled for his phone. His fingers slipped over the keypad as he tried to push the tiny buttons, but eventually he dialled enough nines and a switchboard operator chirped brightly at him.

"I need an ambulance," he said, his voice wavering annoyingly as he spoke. "My friend's been shot. Yes he's breathing, but he's bleeding badly, please can you just…" he took a deep breath. "We're in an alleyway behind Selfridges off Duke Street. Can you come?" He swallowed and switched his phone to speaker, and he put it down on a loose brick.

He turned his full attention back to John.

John was surprisingly calm, though his eyes were wide, and he was pale. Sherlock swallowed again and tried to shake the panic from his head.

John smiled and reached out to touch him gently on the cheek.

"Don't worry," he said quietly. "I'm fine. Just a flesh wound."

Sherlock wondered how dreadful his face must look to have warranted that reaction. He held John's hand to his cheek and tried to calm down.

John's hand dropped again, and Sherlock was conscious of a sticky sensation on where he'd been touched, and he surmised that a smudge of blood must have been left there. John closed his eyes and slumped, and Sherlock caught him.

"Please hurry!" he screamed towards the phone.

He shuffled forward so he was sitting close beside John, and he pulled John to rest against his chest. John was shivering, so Sherlock shrugged his coat off taking care not to disturb John too much. He wrapped it around John, and then he wrapped him in his arms too for good measure. John was limp now, so Sherlock pressed his hand over the wound. By now John's whole side was soaking wet.

"You need to hurry!" he shouted again to the phone, and he listened while the ambulance's location was reported to him. He used a tiny part of his brain to calculate how many minutes he'd have to wait.

The shout revived John slightly, and his eyelids fluttered open again. He looked around the alley and then up at Sherlock, blinking hard to focus his eyes. He nodded and rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Oh, this is a bit not good," John whispered. "You need to prepare…" He struggled with his voice for a second. "Sherlock, I think I might die."

Sherlock felt a dizzying, icy sensation run down his spine. He fought against it.

"Course you're not going to die," he said, forcing his voice to sound jovial.

"'veryone dies. 's what people do." John murmured.

"Yes, but you're not going to die for a long, long time yet."

"Will you be there with me?" John asked, slowly and quietly. "When I die?"

Sherlock shuddered and clenched his jaw, wishing he didn't find it so damned easy to cry.

"You might outlive me," he said. "Don't talk now. Stay calm. The ambulance is on its way." He held John tightly.

"Wasn't with you," John slurred. "Wasn't there when you died."

"I didn't die, remember?" Sherlock answered. "I didn't die, and anyway, you were with me. You were the last person I spoke to and the last person I saw. You were with me."

"Phones don' count. Wasn't on the roof. Wasn't with you. Wasn't there when you were so… so scared."

"I wasn't…" Sherlock stopped until he could control his voice. "Settle down now, John. The ambulance is on its way. You'll be fine."

"I think I'm ready to die now," John said sleepily. "You're here. You're fine now." He closed his eyes.

"No." Sherlock shook his head again and held John tighter. He was now shivering and dizzy himself. He recognised the symptoms of shock and he took a deep breath and rubbed John's arm. "No, John Watson doesn't do this, remember?" he said firmly. "John Watson fights death. You don't say 'I'm done now'. You say 'please, God, let me live.' Say it now."

There was a silence. Sherlock shook John, not hard, but enough to keep him awake.

"John? Come on now. 'Please, God, let me live.' Just say it."

"God, … me live," it was barely even a whisper.

"I don't think God can hear you. Say it louder."

John sighed.

"Please, God, let me live," he murmured.

"Good. Now say something else. Please, John. Say something else now."

John took a breath.

"Fuck me this hurts," he said, sounding slightly clearer.

Sherlock gave a short, relieved laugh.

"Well if you would go around getting shot all over the place, you're going to have to expect a little pain."

"Yeah," John sighed again. "Think I chose a life of pain when I moved in with you."

Sherlock grinned and squeezed John's arm.

"Sherlock, is it possible…" John shuddered and swallowed, but with a huge effort, he focussed again. "Is it possible you're giving me a big cuddle?"

"Don't worry," Sherlock said. "I won't tell anyone and you won't remember.

John snorted and smiled faintly. He closed his eyes again, and Sherlock looked up along the alleyway.

"Ambulance is here," he said.


	7. Chapter 7

**Oh my, I'd forgotten how much you lot like a bit of drama! Thanks so much for reviewing, and apologies for the cruel cliffhanger.**

Chapter Seven

The emergency department at University College Hospital was hot and busy. Sherlock paced around it like a mad man, staring wildly at various people, analysing them for details of their lives and the reasons for them being here, now, sitting calmly when the world was in such turmoil, then dismissing them before his brain had found any satisfaction. His long coat was tucked loosely under his arm and it was trailing along the floor behind him, picking up traces of cleaning products and dust and the pollen and dirt that had been tracked in by other people. He had been offered a quiet room to wait in, but he'd declined, preferring to be out here where there was at least a small chance of distraction.

Mycroft and Lestrade arrived together, and Sherlock watched as Mycroft looked around the room with an expression of quiet interest. Lestrade was more familiar with such places, and he wasted no time in finding Sherlock and charging across to him.

"What the hell happened?" he asked. He stood firmly with legs slightly apart and hands on his hips. It was a stance of aggression, and Sherlock wondered whether Lestrade was fighting panic.

He didn't answer him.

Mycroft joined them too, and he quietly took Sherlock's coat from him, wrapping it into a ball and holding onto it.

"What's John's condition?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock was distracted from him. He looked back at Lestrade who had diminished slightly, and was staring, wide-eyed at a smear of blood on Sherlock's white shirt.

Sherlock put his hand to his cheek where John had touched it. He felt the sticky mark there and rubbed at it with his hand. Mycroft handed him a clean, linen handkerchief, and he carefully wiped his face with it. He glanced down to see a faint, brown mark rubbed onto the cloth, and his hand tightened into a fist around it. He looked back up at Lestrade and found he couldn't speak. The surprise at such a failing shocked him into laughing.

Lestrade frowned.

"Do you should…" he started to say, but then he frowned, clearly assessing his sentence for grammatical accuracy.

Sherlock laughed again.

Lestrade gently took him by the elbow and led him to a chair.

"You should sit down," he said.

Sherlock obeyed but only for a second before he stood up again. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and shook his head.

"John's in surgery now," he said. "I'm fine. They don't know what was hit, but there was substantial blood loss."

"Did they indicate how long they'd be?" Mycroft asked.

"No," Sherlock said. He sat down again, but then stood up and swayed.

"Sit down," Lestrade said, and Sherlock surprised himself by obeying. "I'm going to get you some water."

Lestrade went across to the water-cooler at the other side of the room. Mycroft stood over Sherlock, frowning at this new puzzle that needed solving.

Lestrade was back quickly and he pushed a plastic cup at Sherlock.

"Did they try to treat you for shock again?" he asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said, and he gulped down the water. "I got cross," he said when he'd finished. "I'm clearly fine."

"Yes," Mycroft said, frowning.

"Good," Lestrade said. "Is there anything you need?"

Sherlock's eyes were clear suddenly, and he pinned Lestrade with his gaze.

"Yes, you need to find Able. Do it quickly, don't mess around, just find him and finish him permanently. Go to Andrea too and kill her. No, don't kill her; leave her for me. I need to talk to her. I need her to understand what she's done."

Lestrade and Mycroft exchanged a glance. Sherlock looked ready to protest but they were interrupted by a nurse.

"Mr Holmes?" he said, walking towards them.

Sherlock shot out of his chair.

"Yes?"

"They're just finishing in surgery now," he said. "I was sent to tell you that doctor Watson is perfectly stable and was throughout. They found and removed the bullet; it caused a laceration to his small intestine which they've repaired but that was the only organ damage. They've given him four units of blood, and they want to hold him in recovery for a while so they can observe him closely, but then he'll be moved to a general ward, and you can see him then."

"How long will that be, precisely?" Sherlock asked.

"I can't say precisely," the nurse faltered under the double glare from Sherlock and Mycroft. "It's important that they watch him closely, and it'll be several more hours at least. When they're completely satisfied, they'll move him as quickly as they can. Your phone number is in his notes; if you want to go and rest somewhere, we can call you."

"Right, fine," Sherlock said. "Thank you."

He charged off, leaving Mycroft and Lestrade baffled in his wake. It was only for a moment, though, and they followed him through the hospital entrance and onto the street.

"I need a cigarette and a taxi," Sherlock told them.

"My car's waiting for us," Mycroft said, and he turned to walk towards the main road.

"Sorry," Lestrade said. "I've given up again."

"You have no staying power, either in one way or the other," Sherlock said.

Lestrade didn't reply.

Sherlock got into Mycroft's car, moving along to the far seat so that Lestrade could sit next to him. Mycroft settled into the passenger seat at the front.

"Baker Street," he said quietly.

"No," Sherlock said forcefully. "I want to go to the hotel first. You two can go and find Able afterwards, but I need to go to see Andrea."

"Fine," Mycroft said. "Gloucester place."

The driver nodded and they moved off.

Sherlock was tense and quiet in the car journey, and neither of the others attempted to interrupt his brooding. When they pulled in outside the Holiday Inn, he barely waited for the car to stop before he leapt out. Lestrade got out the other side, and Sherlock glanced at him.

"I'm fine on my own," he said.

"No, you're not," Lestrade replied. "And you need to give me the gun before you go inside."

"What?"

"I'm not stupid, Sherlock. There was no gun at the crime scene, there was no way Able got back to it with you right there. John was being helped into the ambulance and you went back for the gun. Hand it over."

"I'm not going to kill her," Sherlock muttered.

"I don't care. Give it to me, and we'll go and see what she has to stay."

"I don't need you here!" Sherlock said. He turned and paced away.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted.

Sherlock faltered and came back to him.

"Just this few hours," Lestrade is. "Just for the time that John's unconscious, I'm sticking with you. I don't expect you to like it, but it's what's going to happen, so get used to it. Now give me the gun and let's go and see this Miss Thakery."

Sherlock pouted, but he took the gun from his jacket and handed it to Lestrade. He checked the safety was on, and then put it inside his own coat.

"OK then," he nodded.

Sherlock turned away and stormed into the hotel.

He didn't speak or look at Lestrade as they walked to Andrea's room. Sherlock banged loudly on the door. There was no answer, and Sherlock leaned in and closed his eyes to listen. He knocked again, more forcefully than before. He didn't stop until the door opened and Andrea appeared and looked at him with reddened eyes.

"Oh," she said. "It's you."

Sherlock pushed his way into the room and Lestrade followed him. He stayed by the door as Sherlock strode right in and looked around. Andrea's suitcase had been put on the still unmade bed, and she'd thrown most of her various possessions into it in a haphazard fashion.

Sherlock stood over it and looked inside. After a few seconds, his hand darted in and he retrieved a zip-lock bag containing a small amount of white powder.

"For you," he said, tossing it across to Lestrade.

"Hah," Andrea laughed coldly. "Would be that we'd have shared it once. Don't act all innocent, Sherlock, I know you."

"How did you get the memory stick from Able?" he asked.

"What?"

"I'm not interested in the money, or the drugs, or _anything_ else right now," he snarled and he walked closer to her. "What did Able ask you to do and how did you get the memory stick from him."

"I didn't…" she started, but she wilted under Sherlock's stare. "I went to his place, but he wasn't there. He has a friend or servant or something, and he was there. He came in to give me my instructions, and then he went to ask Able whatever else. I looked around the room, horrid little squalid place, and I was angry with Able because he said he'd be there, and there was just this man. I wasn't interested in the doorman. I should have been allowed to see Able."

Sherlock continued to stare at her without moving. She faltered again.

"I don't know why I took it. I don't know! It was just there, on the mantelpiece next to full ashtrays and dirty cups. I thought I heard Able coming, so I just took it and hid it. It wasn't Able though; it was the fat little doorman again. He told me to leave."

"What was on the memory stick?"

"I don't know! It wouldn't work! It broke my laptop too; it's nothing more than a paperweight now."

"What did he tell you about me?" Sherlock asked.

"He didn't tell me anything! He just asked if I remembered you. He said that if I could deliver you to him here, at the hotel, I'd get a reward. He said if I couldn't get you to come here, he'd give me another location."

"Where?"

"I don't know, he never said. I wondered if it was the agency place, I wondered if Simon was somehow working with him, but then…"

"You saw the mark and you ran," Sherlock said. She nodded. "Why?"

"I'm not supposed to go to Able direct. I didn't follow the right chain. They clearly found out and now they'll come after me. I need help, Sherlock! I need some kind of protection!"

Her eyes welled and the tears shimmered on her eyelashes. Sherlock didn't move, and he didn't look away from her.

"What were your precise instructions about me?"

"Just to… to do whatever it took to get you to him. I should have known you'd never be interested in me," she said, bitterly. "You weren't before and I should have known you'd never change. I brought John back as a consolation prize. I thought he'd do if not…"

Sherlock took another step towards her, and his jacket fell open as he did so. Andrea's eyes fell upon the dark red bloodstain on his white shirt, and she stepped backwards, shivering and swallowing, until she was pinned against the wall. Sherlock kept moving until there was just an inch of air between them.

"What do you know about Simon?" he growled.

"Simon?" Lestrade asked.

"Simon Able," Sherlock said, not turning his glare from Andrea. "She knows him as Simon."

"I don't know anything!" Andrea whispered frantically. "No! He can't be! He's not… he doesn't work as a concierge!"

Sherlock didn't move. He continued to stare at her, and she swallowed again.

"I've seen him three times," she whispered, "and spoken to him twice, both times about the agency! No, wait! There was a book."

"Get it for me."

He didn't move away, and she carefully slid to her left so that she could step round him. He followed her to the bed and she picked up a copy of _An Equal Music. _Sherlock took it from her without looking at it.

"It was in the bathroom," she stammered. "It was just there on the second day I was here. I thought housekeeping must have left it or something but maybe it's helpful to you? I can be helpful to you! I can work with you now! I can!"

Sherlock stepped towards her again and she fell back onto the bed. She scurried onto it, backing into her bag. She was breathing quickly and her eyes were wide like a mouse backed into a corner by a cat.

"John Watson is no consolation prize,"Sherlock said quietly. "If he dies…" he took one more step forwards, and she shrank back from him.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said quietly.

Sherlock turned abruptly and walked across the room.

"Take this to Mycroft," he snapped, pushing the book at Lestrade. "Arrest her, take her away, I don't care what happens to her. Let her rot."

He pushed his way out of the door and into the corridor.

He hadn't got far before it became clear that his body was betraying him. His head was swimming and his heart was racing and he had to stop walking so that he could lean against a wall and just breathe. For a moment, he wondered if Andrea had found a way to poison him.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade said, and Sherlock looked up to see him by his side. A tentative hand was put on his shoulder. "Sherlock? You OK?"

Sherlock didn't answer but he nodded.

Lestrade shook his head.

"Do you want me to take you home?" he asked.

"No."

"Do you want to go back to the hospital?"

"No."

Lestrade stood back from him.

"Wait for me downstairs in the foyer while I get someone to come up and take her away." He looked worriedly at Sherlock. "I'll be there as soon as I can, OK?"

Sherlock nodded and walked to the lift like a zombie. He pressed the button and stared at the stark, metal doors. His gaze dropped to the carpet, and he slowly stepped away from the lift and walked along the corridor to the cleaning room that they'd chased Able through hours before. He tried the door handle and was puzzled to find it open until he remembered about the access to the fire escape. He stepped into the small room and glanced around. He pushed the fire escape open and stared out across the rooftops of London for a while. He turned around and looked around the cupboard again. There were the usual mops and buckets and cleaning products. There was also a small stack of bath-towels. They weren't good quality and they weren't the customised hotel towels. Sherlock reached out and moved them slightly, and then his gaze fell upon a rag that was draped over a vacuum cleaner handle, carefully positioned above an air-vent. He picked up the rag and held it out to find it was a pair of swimming briefs. He looked at the towels again.

He pulled the fire-door closed and stormed out of the cupboard and back along to the lift. He paced the corridor impatiently as he waited for it. The doors opened just before he decided to go to find the stairs and two uniformed policemen walked out of it. Sherlock stood aside to let them past.

He went into the lift and rocked onto his toes as he travelled down to the ground floor. When he got there he stormed through the lobby and out onto the street.

He set off, walking quickly, to Hyde Park.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

It was still early in the summer, but the sun was hot enough to have brought droves of people out onto the grass to relax for a while after their days at work or shopping trips. There were several ball games going on, and women sat around picnic blankets which were spread with snacks and wine.

Sherlock walked swiftly past all of them. He didn't follow the pathways but made a bee-line across the grass and through short lines of trees towards the Serpentine.

He reached the water at the end of the lake where the swimming club was, far away from the tourists in their rowing boats. There was nobody swimming here now. The favoured times for the club were the early hours of the morning when the air was clean and cool and there weren't so many people around.

Sherlock slowed as he reached the clubhouse. The building was closed and padlocked. He stood still in front of the door and looked out at the water.

There was a movement to his right, and he turned to face it.

Able emerged from the side of the clubhouse. He was a tall man; taller than Sherlock, though his stooped posture made him appear scrawny and weak. His skin was rough and blotchy, and his grin showed his yellowing, crooked teeth through his pale, wet lips.

"I wondered when you'd find me," he said.

"We found you weeks ago," Sherlock said quietly. "If we didn't apprehend you instantly, you can assume it was because it was in our best interests to leave you free."

Able grinned wider.

"Oh, Mister Holmes, I don't think so. And what of me anyway? I hardly count. None of us count really. Mister Moriarty saw to that. If one of us falls down, there will always be someone else to take his place. We'll never stop coming after you. We never will."

"Where's the key?"

Able sniggered.

"You'll never find it now, Mister Holmes. It's gone where you can't get it."

"They nobody can get it. It's harmless now."

"Oh I wouldn't say that." He smirked at Sherlock and took a small step towards him. "How's your friend, Mister Holmes?"

Sherlock moved quickly. He grabbed Able by his lapels and shoved him hard into the wall of the club-house.

"Where's the key?" he asked through gritted teeth.

Able laughed.

"You don't know how entertaining it is, knowing that you don't know!"

Sherlock slammed him against the wall again.

"Where's the key?"

Able just laughed.

"Oh, Mister Moriarty was so right about you! So blind! So very blind!" He laughed again. "You'll never find it! You'll never see!"

Sherlock pulled Able away and dragged him, flailing, across the footpath and onto the little jetty where the swimmers accessed the water. He tripped him and brought him down onto the wooden planks. Able floundered and kicked, but he was unfocussed and still laughing.

Sherlock shoved him hard into the water, still holding onto his lapel, keeping his head just below the surface while his limbs thrashed and sprayed water everywhere.

Sherlock was aware of people running towards him, and there was soon someone grabbing at him, trying to pull him away. He let go of Able to shove the newcomer backwards, and he heard the splash as he fell of the pontoon the other side. Sherlock was quickly back down to Able, who had surfaced and was choking and coughing and laughing.

Sherlock grabbed him and ducked him again, soaking his jacket sleeves in the murky water.

He was aware of the growing commotion behind him. Someone was helping the other man from the water. Someone else was holding onto him, tentatively though, and ready to jump out of the way if he turned. There were shouts and screams on the footpath. There were more footsteps and two, stronger arms took hold of him. He let Able go as he was pulled backwards and was disappointed to see him rise to the surface again, still breathing, still flapping and still alive.

He was forced backwards along the pontoon and down onto the footpath. He felt the familiar restrictions of authorised police holds.

He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of someone helping Able out of the water. He could hear Able's bleating voice protesting and complaining about the mad man who had flown at him. People were fussing, asking if he was well, telling him to sit and wait for an ambulance, and someone said that they'd run and get him a nice hot drink. He listened to Able's thanks and protests.

Sherlock stayed still, not fighting against the handcuffs that he could feel around his wrists. He opened his eyes to look at the gravel of the footpaths and the shiny, hard, black boots of the arresting officer.

"Sherlock!"

It was a familiar and welcome voice, but Sherlock didn't move.

"Sherlock! What the hell! Oi! You there! You're arresting the wrong bloody man! Wait! No, Grab him!"

There was the sound of a scurry and a push and of Lestrade running. He didn't need to go far and Sherlock surmised that Able's sodden clothes had slowed him down. There were more shouts of confusion, and he heard Lestrade barking instructions, probably showing his ID, and the sound of a restraint and an arrest. Sherlock closed his eyes and waited.

It wasn't long before he felt the pressure of the handcuffs being removed and a friendly hand on his shoulder helped him to roll onto his back.

"Christ, Sherlock," Lestrade said, looking down at him. "You push the definition of 'wait for me in the lobby' to its furthest reach, don't you!"

He helped Sherlock to sit up. Sherlock looked several feet down the path to where Able was restrained and complaining bitterly. He glanced in the other direction to where another sodden man was sitting, wrapped in someone else's coat and sipping at a warm drink. He wondered about apologising but couldn't be bothered to move.

"We'll take him back to the Yard," Lestrade said, looking at Able. "Or I'll get someone else to anyway. I'll let Mycroft in to get the key out of him. If anyone can do it, he can." He looked at Sherlock. "He'll be charged with shooting John, Sherlock. We'll make sure he does plenty of time for that. Don't worry."

Sherlock stared at him blankly until his phone rang, bringing his mind back from wherever it had gone.

He pushed himself up and walked a few paces away to answer it.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said.

"Hello, Mister Holmes, it's David from the hospital. I just wanted to let you know that Doctor Watson is doing fine at the moment, and he's being taken to Cornwell Ward now. You can come and see him if you like."

"Thank you."

Sherlock hung up just as a police car arrived on the path in front of them.

"Good news?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes."

"Good, well, I'll leave this lot to take Able away and I'll come back to the hospital with you."

"There's no need," Sherlock said quietly.

"No, I said I'd deliver you to a conscious John, and that's what I intend to do." He looked at Sherlock and frowned. "Let's hope it's soon, shall we? Because otherwise you'll be the death of me."

Sherlock's eyes grew wide and confused.

"Oh hell!" Lestrade said. "I didn't mean that how it came out! And you are not the cause of John's current… predicament."

Sherlock frowned, and then he turned and walked off along the path. Lestrade caught up and walked beside him. He seemed to have decided that silence was the best option just at the moment.

oOo

Sherlock put his hand on the door handle of John's little room. He waited. After a moment he removed his hand and looked up at Lestrade.

"Wait here," he said.

Lestrade nodded and leant against the wall.

Sherlock opened the door just wide enough to dart inside. He closed the door quietly and firmly before turning to John.

He didn't look as bad as he'd anticipated. He was very pale and looked old, but there were no tubes or pipes running into him anywhere. There were a few wires connected to sensors, but nothing more disturbing than that. The machine which displayed the readings was quiet, showing numbers and a pulse signal without the jarring noise of a beep.

John's had been stripped and put into a hospital gown. The clothes he'd been wearing were folded and placed on the visitor's chair by the side of the bed. The shirt was badly blood-stained and Sherlock wondered whether it would be acceptable for him to just dispose of it before John woke up. He moved everything to the tray beneath the bed, fretted about this and turned back to John.

His feet were uncovered for some reason, and Sherlock frowned at them, finding the sight strangely unnerving. John had bare feet if he was still in his pyjamas, or if he was fresh from the shower, and sometimes even then he'd wear a pair of tatty, threadbare slippers. Other than that, he had at least his socks and usually his shoes on at all times. Initially Sherlock had been concerned that John hadn't been quite comfortable in the house, and hadn't felt at home. Now he knew it was just John's way. It was as if he always wanted to be ready to engage with the world. There had been a two occasions, once when John had flu, and once following a particularly bad episode with Harry, where Sherlock had seen him sitting around the flat with bare feet. He wondered if this was why he was associating the sight with misery now.

He flicked the blanket down to cover them up.

He looked at John's face again and went back to the door.

"You can come in now," he said quietly to Lestrade.

He looked past him to Mycroft who had reappeared while he'd been inside. He stood aside to let them in, feeling uncomfortable by the way in which they looked at John with such concern and sympathy.

"Has Able said anything interesting yet," he barked out.

Lestrade turned to look at him.

"No, well, we don't know yet. We haven't been given much time yet, Sherlock. Give us some time, OK?"

Sherlock turned away and went to look out of the window. The view from John's window was of an uninspiring patch of yard, complete with shingle paths and a rusting, unidentifiable sculpture.

"Lestrade said Able has hidden the key," Mycroft said.

Sherlock sensed he was being addressed, but he didn't answer.

"Yeah," Lestrade put in when the pause had become uncomfortable. "Well, we'll find it soon, I'm sure."

"'t's in my pocket," John muttered.

Sherlock spun around to look at him. He was completely still and calm, and his eyes were still closed.

"John?" he said quietly.

"Think it's in my coat pocket." John murmured. "I like that coat. 't's a good coat for a short bugger like me. Hope there's no hole. Also…" John sighed a deep sigh. "Potatoes."

"What?" Lestrade asked, looking confused.

Sherlock had quickly crossed the bed though, and he grabbed the bundle of clothes scattering them across the floor until he found John's coat and he started rooting through the pockets.

"Mycroft," he said as he searched, "do you know what your biggest failing is? You persistently underestimate John Watson. That's your biggest failing."

He found the memory stick and held it aloft.

"How the hell did John get it?" Lestrade asked.

"He must have grabbed it during the fight," Sherlock said, handing it to Mycroft.

"Like an… a… an… octo-thing. Puss." John said.

Sherlock grinned.

"It broke Andrea's computer," Lestrade said. "She said it wouldn't open and then erased it."

"Clearly she hadn't got anything worth accessing," Mycroft said.

"Well you lot definitely have," Lestrade pointed out. "Be careful with it."

"Oh my people will have rendered it harmless in the next twenty four hours. They have ways of making…"

"Oh sod off you noisy sods," John said. "Let a man… you know… sleep. Get away. Don't come back without those things… potatoes."

The other three stared at him.

"Maybe he's hungry," Lestrade suggested.

John growled. He literally growled with a rolling 'gr' in his throat.

"We'll leave you alone now," Lestrade said quietly.

"Make sure Sh'lock eats something. Give him to Mrs Hudson. She'll know."

"Will do, John," Lestrade said quietly. He ushered Mycroft out of the door.

Sherlock lingered for a moment, and walked up to the bed to look at John again. He was still calm, and still pale. Sherlock leaned down close over him.

"Now that looked awfully like showing off to me," he said quietly.

John smiled in his faux-sleep.

"Well, you know," he said. "It's what we do."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

John's face screwed up in pain.

"Oh God! This hurts! Oh damn you stop it!" He wiped his eyes and took some short breaths. "Ha ha ha ha! I can't believe you actually said that! 'John Watson's no consolation prize!' Hee hee hee! Oh stop! I'll burst my stitches!"

Sherlock chuckled softly. He was sitting on the arm of the visitor's chair and leaning on John's bed in his hospital room.

"Well, it might be fair to say that I was not at my absolute best."

"Ha ha ha! Oh Lord stop it! Oh dear me." John took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock. "I think you need to learn that there's a very fine line between dramatic and twee." He sniggered again and held onto his side.

"You should sleep," Sherlock said quietly.

"I don't want to sleep!"

"When I say that, you get all fussy and cross."

"Well you're not me. So how did you know he was in the park?"

"Where else in London can a person swim before their four AM shift starts?" Sherlock asked. "Lestrade found it through the book. I wasn't in the foyer when he'd finished with Andrea, and called Mycroft in a panic. He started flicking through the book while he was waiting, and the Serpentine swimming club is mentioned on the first page. Like I say, Able isn't a subtle man. He tries to be clever with his footman and subterfuge and not letting people see his face, but there's no real substance to him."

He drifted off and started staring into space.

"Would you have killed him?" John asked quietly.

A shadow flickered across Sherlock's face.

"I don't know," he said softly. "I don't know. I wanted to." He glanced back at John. "You shouldn't worry about it anyway. You should go to sleep."

"I'm not worried," John said. "I'm slightly apprehensive because we don't know how many of Moriarty's cronies are out there, and it's going to mean trouble, and we need to be able to deal with trouble without losing our minds. But I'm not worried. We'll work it all out, and while we do so, I'll take care of you, and apparently you'll take care of me too."

Sherlock sighed and nodded.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

John smiled.

"Pretty much the same as when you asked me twenty minutes ago."

"I think I'm waiting for an honest answer."

John snorted.

"I'm fine. I'm a bit uncomfortable, a bit woozy if I sit up too fast, but I'm mostly fine. I'm going to take the opportunity to rest up, because I anticipate there will be no rest at all when I get home."

"OK," Sherlock nodded. "Go to sleep."

He turned to pick up his notepad and pen from the seat of the chair, and then he slid back into it. He rested the pad on his knees and returned to his writing. There were a few minutes of quiet.

"What are you writing?" John asked.

"None of your business. You're supposed to be sleeping."

"Yeah. So what are you writing?"

"It's not ready yet."

"OK. So what are you writing?"

Sherlock sighed.

"It's the list, OK? I'm writing the list, as instructed."

"What list? What are you talking about? Who instructed you?"

"You did."

"No," John said, frowning.

"Yes, you did. You said 'what are you sorry for?' and I said 'I can't articulate it right now,' and you said 'write it down'. Why are you laughing again?"

John moaned and clutched at his side.

"Oh please stop it! It hurts so much when I laugh!" he laughed. "Give me the list."

Sherlock handed it to him.

"It isn't finished yet," he said anxiously.

"It's three pages long!"

"I like to be thorough."

"Some might say obsessive."

"Some might."

John sighed and put it down, shaking his head.

"It's fine, Sherlock. It's all fine. Certainly…" he glanced at the list, "certainly 'using the fridge for bacterial cultures' is fine." He frowned. "Actually, you might want to scale that back just a bit, or at least clearly label what it is that you're growing, but generally, it's all fine. Just don't stop talking to me," he said sleepily. "That's all I ask. Just don't stop telling me what you're thinking. I can deal with it all when I've got a head start."

He settled back onto the pillow again.

"Are you O…" Sherlock started.

"I'm _fine._ Now be quiet and let me have a bit of sleep."

Sherlock watched and waited until he was reasonably sure that John was asleep, and then he gently slid the notepad from under his arm. He sat back down on the chair and continued to write.

* * *

**There you go! That's all done now. I hope you liked it. Pip xxx**


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